VIII.

And on Vimieiro, where the deep defile With rocks and torrent-beds and hardy pines The foe entangles, while they climb with toil The crescent-ridge that sweeps to the Atlantic. Shines Thy bristling bayonet-row, and fall their lines, Like corn the yeoman reaps. Thy triumph graced Their cannon captured ’mid the purpling vines; And backward fell their force to Torres chased, Where I have marked the skill thy glorious Lines that traced.